HEART SPOKEN: Hip Hip Hooray after hip surgery

I’m the kind of person who can’t stand the sight of blood, feels faint when I’m about to get a shot, and covers my eyes at gory scenes in movies. Clearly I was never a candidate for the medical field.

So here I am, attired in paper shorts, sitting on the examining table of an orthopedic surgeon. He is focusing on the x-rays of my 2 knees and 2 hips, and if I’m reading his facial expression correctly, things do not look good. Three out of these 4 joints are in poor shape, bone on bone and arthritic.

“Which one hurts the most?” he asks, adding, “Right now you don’t have a leg to stand on.” “My right hip,” I answer. The rest of the appointment allows for an opportunity to ask an assortment of questions, all answered to my satisfaction, and I agree to book a date.

Just before leaving, though, the doctor adds one more thing. “For 2 to 3 weeks following surgery, you’ll need to inject yourself with Lovenox, a blood thinner to prevent clots. “I don’t think I can do that,” I say. “Oh, yes you can,” he says back to me. I leave, hoping I can convince him to prescribe an oral medication instead.

Several weeks later I’m sitting in a conference room at the hospital where the surgery is scheduled. The required orientation introduces joint replacement candidates to all aspects of the procedure, before, during, and after. Several nurses, an occupational therapist, a physical therapist, and a radiologist offer information and answer questions for an attentive audience, mainly made up of baby boomers.

The program concludes with an opportunity to practice the dreaded deed, nurses fanning throughout the room, needles and oranges in hand.

“It’s easy,” says the nurse, kneeling in front of me. “It’s like pushing on a ball point pen.” I take the needle in my right hand, the orange in my left, and push. Nothing happens. “Maybe it’s a bad needle,” she says. “Try again.” So I try again, and fail again. “Maybe it’s a bad orange,” I say, attempting a little humor. “Okay, third time is the charm,” she says. When I disprove that theory, she offers one more piece of reassurance. “They’ll make sure you can give yourself the shot before you leave the hospital.”

As promised, I do get a lesson from Anthony, the night shift nurse with the gentle smile and reassuring manner.

“I can’t do it,” I say. “I’m afraid I’ll pass out.” “Diane,” he responds, “You’ve handled challenges with your blood pressure and your blood count. I’m here for you. I promise that I’ll talk you through this, step by step, and I’ll write everything down to help you remember.”

And so we begin. My hands are so clammy that I have trouble with step 1, opening the package. Now I’m at step 2, taking the cap off the needle. It doesn’t pull off easily, and I’m convinced that I’ll stab myself in the process. Somehow I avoid that, and place the needle on a paper towel on the tray.

Anthony hands me an alcohol swab, and I proceed to step 3, cleaning an area to the right of my naval. “Breathe,” he says, observing that I’m forgetting to do that. “Okay, now position the needle on the skin, step 4.”

I follow this instruction, at the same time beginning to push on the plunger, and feel a liquid running down my skin. “Wait,” says Anthony. “Pinch the skin into a little ball, and let the needle sink into the skin before you press the plunger, steps 5 and 6.”

He is asking me to do the impossible, and yet, somehow, I follow his directions, feel a stinging sensation, and proceed to step 7, pulling the needle out. The last direction requires one more push on the plunger to eject the cap.

“You did it,’ says a smiling Anthony. “I knew you could.” He adds one more direction. “Make sure you keep track of where you give the shot, and alternate sides.” I’m feeling like I’ve just completed a marathon, and I’m exhausted.

The following day I return home, armed with the equipment to help me through the healing process, walker, cane, commode, compression stockings, and medications. It’s a challenging time as I get used to my new hip, and try to remember the restrictions: No bending over 90 degrees; No crossing legs; No turning feet inward.

While I have the support of family and friends and visiting medical personnel, I’m on my own when it comes to giving myself the Lovenox injection. Armed with Anthony’s directions and the box of needles, I enter the bathroom, take a deep breath, tell myself I cannot pass out, and proceed to step 1. I can do this. Hip, hip, hooray for me!